


Let Me Fall

by aftereighteen



Series: Start/Finish [3]
Category: Swimming RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 20:54:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aftereighteen/pseuds/aftereighteen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 3 of 4</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Fall

**Author's Note:**

> I owe a few thank yous for this work making it out alive. Thank you to my beta for persisting. Thank you to everyone who waited and offered supporting comments or answered stupid questions. Part four will not be half as long coming.
> 
> I spent a lot of time kicking myself for writing a fic set in the present day, because matching up to real-life canon events in September/October 2012 nearly broke me. So I sort of gave up (Twitter is a blessing and a curse).
> 
> As in previous fics, italics are flashbacks and these are intentionally not in chronological order. If there are any mistakes, it's because I've had fourteen hours of sleep in three days.

“What do you mean, I already have a flight booked?” Michael fumes, running a red light without even realising. When the woman on the other end of the line politely informs him that his flight for Las Vegas leaves in two hours, he brings the car to a full on stop.

It takes a couple of minutes to remember he’s still on the phone, and for the woman’s offer to change his flight sinks in. Michael glances at the box on the seat next to him and thinks. Feelings are something he’s not had to deal with for a long time. Because Feelings have nothing to do with swimming. But he’s pretty sure he has Feelings about this box and Feelings about Ryan but he has no idea what they are or how to put them into words or what he wants from them.

“No,” he says into the phone. “I’ll be taking the Vegas flight.” He hangs up, checks his mirrors and drives on.

*

Somehow, this has come as a surprise to Ryan. Like, he’d almost forgotten that he’d sold his house. He’s been so busy flying around and riding out the post-Olympics media storm and mainly taking his clothes off that the move had totally snuck up on him. And suddenly there was a van outside and people were trooping back and forth through his house, putting his shit in boxes and loading it into the van.

And all he can do is stand and stare as the belongings behind him gradually shift and subside. Then two guys pick up the couch like it’s nothing and Ryan feels the room spin and his heart leaps into his throat before sinking right through the spinning floor and he’s kneeling amongst a ton of dust and crumbs and dog hair and there it is, the thing nobody knew he had...

_“Aww, c’mon man,” Ryan implored – only a little drunkenly. “You’ve got plenty, just let me try it? I’ll give it back, it’s not like I’m gonna break it; gold’s like, hella tough. You can bite it and everything.”_

_“You’ve got your own,” Michael slurred grumpily. “Don’t need mine.”_

_Ryan looked down at the two medals around his neck, the two things in his possession that he was proudest of. But Michael had lots of these things. And Michael had won his own. Ryan’s gold was from the relay. He hadn’t been able to do it by himself, could only win gold when Michael and Klete and Peter pulled him along with them. And somehow, it meant less. Everything meant less compared to Michael._

_“You wouldn’t understand,” he muttered._

_Michael rolled his eyes, pulled one of his medals off and placed it over Ryan’s head. “If it’ll shut you up for five minutes...”_

_For a split second, Ryan looked up and into Michael’s eyes and tried to smile. But his muscles wouldn’t do what he told them to and instead he looked back down, taking the weight of the medal in his palm, memorising the feel of it, trying to imagine what it’d feel like if this were his._

_Michael reached round the back of Ryan’s neck and Ryan felt like someone had sucked all of the air out of his lungs, felt stupid for thinking that Michael would let him keep the medal on for more than a few seconds. But he did. Michael readjusted the collar of Ryan’s shirt and leaned back to consider how it looked._

_Mike clapped Ryan’s shoulder and declared, “You’ll have six too. One day.”_

_Then someone shouted his name on the other side of the bus and he lumbered over to see what they wanted, leaving Ryan feeling as if he’d missed at least two opportunities._

Ryan reaches out and brushes the gold disc with his fingertips, fighting the feeling of his stomach trying to escape via his mouth. He knows Mike doesn’t even miss this thing, and suspects that there’s another thing that’s important to Ryan that Michael doesn’t miss either.

He’s conscious of another body near his space, recognises the smell. The familiar arms are around him, pulling him in and Ryan gives up. And there it is: for the first time in a long time, he soaks his mother’s shirt with tears, because he doesn’t know how to soothe himself anymore.

*

Michael dumps his stuff in his suite, changes into an appropriate outfit for a pool party that he’s really not feeling – shorts, flip flops and sunglasses – and heads back out.

Walking into the party involves the same procedure as walking out onto the deck for a race – zone out, focus on the game; don’t let them see what’s really going on. When he arrives at the party, he’s pretty much got his head in the game and goes through the motions – posing with the plastic girls and the gaudy cake, Allison and Nathan crowding in.

The cameras never really disappear, just drop back a little, but as he’s starting to feel the buzz, he manages to pull Allison aside and babble something cryptically incoherent at her. Even though they’re both wearing sunglasses, he can tell she’s confused. It’s probably because there’s no script from Octagon for what he’s trying to say – that he thinks he might be hopelessly in love with Ryan but that he’s fucked it up beyond all repair and how is he going to live the rest of his life without the pool and the person next to him in it?

She folds her arms around him, lets him cling for a few seconds, then peels away, gets him another drink and drags him up to the DJ booth. 

Several hours later, Nathan guides a reluctant Michael back to his suite. When Nathan tries to get him undressed, Michael shoves him away indignantly. “No, dude,” he pouts. “Where’s Doggy?”

Nathan sighs, “No idea, man, but he isn’t here.”

“H’should be,” Michael mumbles. “Need s’mone to eat the cake with.”

As Michael sprawls across the bed, digging out his phone, Nathan sets a glass of water beside him and leaves him to it. Michael scrolls through his phone and dials Ryan, forgetting that they’re not speaking. And that he has no idea which time zone Ryan is in. Or what time it is in Vegas.

Michael frowns when Ryan doesn’t answer, but waits to leave a message. “Doggy!” he cries. “’m in Vegas. Where you? Y’weren’t at m’party. Missed you.” He pauses with a sigh. “Dunno what else to say, man. See you sometime? I kinda... Could come visit? I miss you. And I love you.”

He hangs up and lets the phone fall out of his hand. A few seconds later, he sits bolt upright, staring at the phone on the bed, horrified with himself.

“Shit,” he breathes to the empty room. Michael rakes a hand through his hair, downs the glass of water Nathan left, flops back down and passes out.

*

It’s 5am, and Ryan’s queuing for pizza with Conor, Kyle and Devon when he feels his pocket vibrating. He digs past his keys and wallet to haul it out of his pocket and stares hard at the screen. Kyle and Devon are far too busy flirting with the girl behind the counter to notice, but Conor sees.

He peers over Ryan’s shoulder and frowns. “Want me to answer it?” he offers.

Ryan shakes his head and pockets his phone again. It stops buzzing after a minute and Conor folds his arms around Ryan’s waist from behind as Ryan lets his eyes droop, rubbing his forehead as his brain throws up unwelcome thoughts of Mike...

_It had been a while since he’d spent some quality time with his big little brother, so Ryan threw Devon a text saying he’d pick him up in an hour._

_Devon was grinning when he hopped into Ryan’s car and immediately cranked the stereo up, kicking his feet up onto the dash. “Where we going?” he asked as Ryan pulled away from the kerb._

_“Breakfast?” Ryan shrugged. “I wanna know what you’ve been up to.”_

_Devon shrugged back. “Not a lot. Watched you win some medals. Played video games. Swam. Y’know.”_

_Ryan laughed as he parked the car. “What’s her name?”_

_Devon grinned at him mischievously, “Which one?”_

_Ryan shook his head, locked the car and slung an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “I’m gonna eat pancakes until you’ve told me everything.”_

_Devon hip checked him as they entered the restaurant, “Get ready to gain some serious pounds this morning, dude. It’ll take at least a week of laps to work ‘em off.”_

_They were seated at a booth and waiting for the pancake mountain to materialise when Ryan’s phone rang. He forgot to check himself before staring at the screen goofily. Devon immediately leaned over the table, trying to see the caller ID. “What’s her name?” he grinned, waggling his eyebrows._

_Ryan punched his arm as he stood up, answering the phone and heading outside. “MPeezy, I didn’t think you spoke to anyone before eight in the morning? Not even your momma,” Ryan drawled, smiling._

_“Doggy!” Michael shouted. Ryan now didn’t need an explanation. “’ve not been t’bed! ‘m in Vegas! Where’re you?”_

_Ryan wandered back and forth on the sidewalk, “I’m getting breakfast with Dev. He’s about to tell me he’s fucked so many chicks on the back of my name that his dick’s about to fall off.” Ryan had a feeling that was too much information for Michael to take in at his level of intoxication._

_“Doggy, they gave me a key!” Michael continued excitedly. Ryan hoped he wasn’t going to have to ask what for. “A key to the Playboy club! Bunnies, Doggy! I can go see them whenever I want!”_

_Ryan’s smile became a little sad. “You into Bunnies these days, MP?” he asked, not sure if he wanted the answer, wondering if what they’d got up to in Beijing had been that forgettable for Michael._

_Michael snorted, “What sorta question’s that? Who isn’t?”_

_Ryan wanted to say, “Me, you idiot,” but bit his tongue. He sighed instead. “Have fun, MP. Remember to wrap it up, jeah?” He didn’t wait for a response from Michael before hanging up._

_“It’s ok, I didn’t spit in ‘em,” Devon mumbled between mouthfuls of pancake, gesturing to Ryan’s plate as he slid into the booth._

_Ryan half-heartedly picked up his fork and prodded at his food. Devon put his own fork down. “Dude. Am I gonna be, like, an uncle or something?” he asked, staring at Ryan._

_Ryan shook his head, “No way. Not yet.”_

_“Well someone totally shit on your parade,” Devon remarked. He frowned at Ryan, but continued eating and resumed his chatter about the girls he’d supposedly entertained over the summer._

_A few weeks later, Ryan forgot to delete the latest Google alert which detailed Michael’s cocktail waitress Thanksgiving date before Devon caught sight of it over his shoulder. His younger brother leaned over, hit delete and bumped his fist against Ryan’s shoulder._

_“You don’t have to make me an uncle, just find someone who doesn’t make you sad, Ry,” he said before peeling off in the direction of the fridge. Ryan stared at the blank screen of his phone, wondering how Devon got so smart, but how he and Mike were so dumb._

Ryan comes to and realises that Conor is still, like, _holding_ him. He shrugs the other man off, grabs his pizza off the girl behind the counter – trying to ignore her desperately waggling her tits in his direction – and heads outside, making his way down the street.

He vaguely hears Devon calling his name but ignores that too, until Devon catches him up, a little breathless.

“Where’re you going, dude?” his brother asks.

“Home,” Ryan replies.

Devon takes his elbow, turning him around. Ryan spots Kyle and Conor walking in the other direction. “Wrong way, man,” Devon reminds him. “You moved.” Ryan nods, feeling like an idiot. He knows he moved. Just like he knows that four times seven isn’t twenty one.

Ryan still has his entire pizza when he walks into the house. Carter’s all over him, even more excited to see him once he realises that there’s pizza too, and they fall onto the couch together, Carter licking the food before eating it. Whilst the dog eats, Ryan flicks the tv on, surfing around until he finds a cartoon to zone out in front of.

He barely notices Conor sitting down next to him until the younger man slides his arm around Ryan’s shoulders. With Carter still busy demolishing his pizza, Ryan gratefully sinks against the warmth of Conor’s body, resting his cheek on the other man’s shoulder.

He definitely doesn’t register Conor’s arm sliding lower, down his back and onto his waist, because he’s now actually concentrating on the cartoon in a feeble attempt to stop the itch in him that desperately wants to listen to the message Mike left. And that’s when he feels Conor shift: his face turning to press against Ryan’s hair, his breathing change, his hips shuffle.

Ryan responds automatically, because he knows this distraction is better. The best, even. He sits up and Conor instantly moves into the space he’s created, hand still pressed against Ryan’s waist, the free one flying to the older man’s cheek and holding him still to dive in to Ryan, all lips and tongue and want.

Ryan’s glad he doesn’t get the chance to respond, because as soon as Conor’s lips are on his, this feels all kinds of wrong and has visions of sobbing on his Mom all over again. But Ryan doesn’t have to push Conor away. Because all of a sudden, Devon’s there, hauling Conor off him with a strength that Ryan knows comes only from the adrenaline of an over-protective sibling.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Devon snarls at Conor. For a few heart-stopping moments, Ryan thinks that Devon might hit Conor. He can tell that his brother has a fist balled and ready to swing, but something holds him back. “Leave him alone,” he spits instead. 

“Go to bed, Ry,” Devon orders, without taking his eye off Conor. For once in his life, Ryan does as he is told, Carter following close behind.

Ryan curls up amongst the sheets with his dog, annoyed that in twenty eight years the only living creature he can guarantee wouldn’t hurt him and isn’t a family member is his Doberman.

*

Michael shakes his head and loosens his shoulders, settling over the tee. Shaking his head still doesn’t clear it of the memory of the message he left Ryan. He shouldn’t have been surprised that no amount of begging and pleading had forced the phone company to delete the message from the server, or tell him whether or not it had been received or listened to. He briefly wonders whether Ryan’s advertising deal with AT&T has given him some sort of extra clout with the company, but dismisses that idea as ridiculous. Although Ryan might try to say otherwise, he’s not God. Or, y’know, the Chief Executive of a telecoms company.

Mike takes a deep breath, draws his arm back and swings through to strike the ball, following the alien stroke with his body. He winces as the ball lands somewhere out in the rough. He knows Hank is saying something, but he’s not listening. Someone has ambled across the green in an outfit that takes him back...

_“THAT is what you’re wearing?” Michael blinked in disbelief. Ryan had appeared from the club store in an array of clashing prints which made Michael’s eyes hurt. He wondered if that was Ryan’s game plan._

_“Jeah!” Ryan grinned. By way of additional explanation he offered, “Because racing.” He proceeded to bop Michael on the ass with one of his clubs as he pulled his visor and sunglasses down and sauntered out to their cart._

_“C’mon, MP!” he called from the driver’s seat. “Or are you too scared of me getting winner’s rights?”_

_Michael wasn’t scared at all – Ryan’s golf was even worse than his outfit – but he was horrified at the thought of having to walk around the course with Ryan in tow sporting neon plaid shorts and a polo with stars on it._

_When they arrived at the first hole, Ryan barged over, put his tee in the ground, swung quickly and sent his ball flying for miles... very wide of the fairway. He shrugged, stepped back and waited for Michael to take his turn. Ryan laughed as Mike went through a typically showy routine of swinging his arms and loosening every joint in his body before settling and taking his shot._

_Michael studiously ignored the older man, following his ball all the way into the hole. Ryan hadn’t even bothered to find his, but seemed to be keeping score anyway._

_“How am I doing?” Michael asked at the halfway point._

_“I dunno, dude. I have no idea how to score this stupid game,” Ryan admitted. Michael stared at him, furious. “But I have given my number to three total MILFs, seen seven outfits worse than mine AND figured out the best place to give you a beejay without getting caught. Hopefully. Wanna see?”_

_Michael was about three seconds from breaking a club across Ryan’s thick skull, but before he could, Ryan smiled slowly, revealing the goddamn grill and Mike lost the ability to think._

_Ryan winked – he had this routine down pat – and turned away, walking slowly into the rough. He glanced over his shoulder, gesturing for Mike to follow. Which, of course, he did, tripping over his own feet due to increasing eagerness._

_As soon as they were within the shelter of the trees, Ryan pushed Michael up against one, claiming the younger man’s mouth with his own, tongue diving straight in to Michael’s mouth._

_Michael moaned in response, running a hand into Ryan’s hair, pressing his hips hard against the other man, willing him on. Despite the fact that Ryan was a flirt, an exhibitionist, a risk-taker, he also knew Mike, and knew that this had to be quick and dirty as he undid Mike’s shorts, doing the minimum necessary to get the job done._

_Mike watched Ryan drop to his knees, moaning as the other man pushed his shirt up a little and pressed his nose to Michael’s belly to breathe in the smell of him on the way. He sank his mouth onto Mike’s length, sucking wetly and hollowing his throat until the younger man yanked on his hair._

_Mike wanted to punch Ryan for stopping. His surroundings slid back into focus – not just his vision, but his hearing and sense of smell too – as Ryan withdrew from his dick, looking up at him seriously. The next few moments stretched for an eternity, which allowed Michael to wonder what would happen first: whether his heart would hammer out of his chest, his balls would explode or one of Ryan’s MILFs would find them and either want to join in or snap a picture on her phone and sell it to Us Weekly._

_“Fuck, dude. I love that you’re keen and whatnot, especially as you looked a million miles from a hard on back there, but can you just, like, chill?” he hissed. “Because if you punch a hole in the back of my throat with your dick, there’ll be consequences bro.”_

_Michael gave him a death stare. “Can you not use fifty words when five would do?” he snapped. “Point taken, let’s hustle.” He tried to poke his dick back into Ryan’s mouth, but the other man tightened his grip on his hip._

_Ryan looked up at him pointedly, turning what had been horny as fuck into a Mexican standoff. He wasn’t normally this stubborn and Mike wondered briefly what had gotten into him. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. As the tension dialled back a few notches, Ryan slid his mouth back onto Mike’s waiting dick._

_Ryan hummed and pushed his other hand into Mike’s shorts to rub his balls, belly, ass, anything that he knew felt good until Mike was arching against the tree again and quickly emptying himself in Ryan’s mouth._

_Michael sagged against the tree as Ryan put him back together. He was still breathing hard when Ryan finished fixing his clothes and stretched up to murmur against his lips, “Told you so.”_

_Mike watched as Ryan stooped to pick up a ball on his way back to the green and, for the first time, noticed how great his ass looked in the hideous shorts._

When he gets back to the clubhouse, Michael makes a beeline for his car and checks his phone. No messages from anyone he wants to hear from. His thumb hovers over the keypad for a good minute before he presses send and holds it to his ear, wincing as he waits for Ryan to answer.

He’s almost relieved when it goes to voicemail and this time, he takes a deep breath before leaving a message. “Hey man,” he says after the tone. “How’s it going? I saw Nate yesterday, he says you’ve been putting it about all over the TV. That’s great, bro. I know that’s what you wanted, hope you’re having fun.”

Michael pauses to take a deep breath. “Anyway... I just wanted to let you know that I think what you’re doing’s great. I kinda miss beating your ass already though. I’m out on the golf course today and... well yeah. Hit me back. I’d like to hear your voice.”

Mike groans and smacks the phone against his forehead. The realisation hits that he walked out on Ryan Lochte and became a girl.

*

Ryan’s in New York. Again. And wakes up to the news that he has seventeen different places to be in one day. He’s about to Google how close scientists are to nailing the whole cloning thing when his mom calls.

“You’re an uncle again!” she announces.

Ryan beams: seventeen whateverthefucks don’t matter when your sister’s just had a baby. “He’s called Trustin,” Ike continues.

Ryan blinks, “He’s called what?” He wonders if he misheard, but it’s not like it’s noisy or anything in his empty hotel room.

“Trustin,” Ike repeats.

“Did Zaydin pick that or something?” Ryan asks, scratching his head.

“Don’t be rude,” his mother scolds. “He’s perfect. You coming to meet him soon?”

Ryan sighs, looking at the mountain of email schedules Erika has sent through. “I hope so,” he replies. “It’d be good to see all the babies again before they start school.”

Ike’s tone softens. “Oh honey. We understand. I didn’t mean...”

“It’s ok, Mom. I miss home too. This shit’s getting kinda old.”

“Just try and enjoy it,” Ike advises. “You know it won’t last forever.”

Ryan nods, offers his love to the family and hangs up. His phone buzzes as soon as he puts it down and he glances down at it. He should’ve known it’d be Mike again, but he hasn’t prepared himself so he hurls his phone across the room in anger.

Stupid fucker left him, why was he getting dumper’s guilt now? Ryan has no interest in what Mike has to say. He has seventeen things to do, so he closes his computer, clambers out of bed and gets in the shower, trying to ignore the thoughts of Mike seeping into his brain...

_Ryan was trying to decide whether to apply another round of conditioner when Mike started banging on the door so hard that he thought it might come off the wall._

_“Would you hurry the fuck up? I’m gonna be late,” he yelled._

_Despite the violence on the other side of the door, Ryan wasn’t fazed. “It’s not locked, come and join me.”_

_Michael barged in, face like thunder, butt naked. “Why didn’t you wake me?”_

_Ryan shrugged. “Looked like you needed a sleep. I did too, but I couldn’t.” He’d arrived in Baltimore the previous night, late and as a surprise. Mike had been duly surprised, and so had Ryan by the lukewarm reception. Michael hadn’t even tried to reciprocate after he’d dropped to his knees and blown his unsuspecting host almost before he’d even closed the front door behind him. But Ryan had been tired, written it off as shock and happily tumbled into bed and passed out._

_Mike crowded into the shower, pushed Ryan aside and began to clean himself up. “I’m supposed to be at a clinic in half an hour.”_

_“Oh,” Ryan responded. “I didn’t know.”_

_“Clearly,” Michael grunted, rubbing shampoo across his head._

_“Well I’m not psychic,” Ryan pointed out, starting to get riled._

_“Did Herman turn my alarm off, then?” Michael asked._

_Ryan folded his arms across his chest, trying not to shiver and feel ridiculous whilst stood watching his lover shower and try to have a fight simultaneously. “No,” he replied testily. “I did. Because you were whacked and I assumed you only had it set for training, which you’re not doing right now. Because you’re meant to be on vacation. Which was why I came to visit. I’m sorry to have gotten in your way.”_

_He climbed out of the shower, left the bathroom without picking up a towel and went back to the bedroom._

_Michael didn’t follow, he continued getting ready. Ryan sat down on the side of the unmade bed. He picked at a thread absently as he tried to figure out what had happened and what he should do._

_“Is it something I said?” he asked. Michael’s busy rummaging around for clothes, but Ryan knows he heard._

_“Is it something I did?” Ryan pressed, keen to avoid Mike dashing off to honour his commitment without finding out what had caused him to be this angry. Sure, Mike could be shitty in the mornings, but oversleeping a little really wasn’t that big of a deal in Ryan’s book._

_Michael paused before pulling the t-shirt he’d found over his head. Ryan couldn’t see Mike’s face, but he knew he was getting warmer._

_“What did I do?” Ryan asked, confused. Mike pulled on a pair of jeans and dug out some clean socks, still refusing to properly acknowledge Ryan’s questions._

_“For fuck’s sake, dude,” Ryan raised his voice in exasperation. “Will you stop being so fucking passive-aggressive and just tell me what’s up? You’re making me feel like a criminal, all I did was stop by and blow you.”_

_“No, Ryan, that isn’t all you did,” Mike bristled, finally glaring at him. “You rocked up uninvited, not thinking to ask whether I might be busy or interested...”_

_“Since when have we needed to invite each other over?” Ryan yelled. “Oh, sorry, should I have asked your mom first? Do you need permission for sleepovers now? Or do I need to check with your agent as to whether I can fit into your schedule? Do let me know when you’ll be back in training, so that I can get Bob’s signoff next time I want to have sex, yeah?”_

_And there it was. The penny dropped when Ryan mentioned Bob and Michael visibly flinched. Ryan’s jaw dropped. “Seriously, you have to ask him if you can, like, see friends?”_

_“Only the ones who beat me at my own game a year out from my last meet,” Michael replied, looking away this time._

_Ryan stood up and started yanking his clothes on. “Fuck you,” he muttered. Once he had wriggled into his jeans, Ryan whirled round and let rip. “Fuck you! You know why this worked? Because the pool was separate. We’re more than that. We’re cards and snacks and gaming and music and being normal dudes. Christ, Mike, if I were this sore of a loser, I wouldn’t have spoken to you for, like, seven fucking years.”_

_He paused to pull himself into a t-shirt and grab his bag. “You’d better make your peace with this and do it fast. Unless you’re planning on changing your mind about retiring.”_

_Ryan didn’t want to walk away from a fight like this, but he knew Mike and knew that he wasn’t ready to congratulate Ryan and move on. So he took off down the hallway and slammed Mike’s front door behind him, playing the passive-aggressive card right back at his friend._

As the water pounds over his body, Ryan becomes aware of a similar pounding of fist on wood to the one which had just filtered through his thoughts. Someone’s hammering on the door. For a heart-stopping moment, he worries it’s Mike, who’s used his ninja powers – or Twitter account – to track Ryan down and cause more heartache.

When he wrenches the suite door open, holding a towel around his waist, he’s surprised to see Conor, looking agitated.

Ryan frowns. “Where’s the fire?”

“Here, apparently,” Conor replies. “Erika’s doing her nut, you’re late and she can’t get a hold of you.”

Ryan quickly comes up with a plausible excuse. “Can’t decide what to wear,” he shrugs.

Conor rolls his eyes. “One of your billion pairs of jeans, perhaps? And you’ve not left that cardigan behind for days, I’m kinda feeling like you want to marry it or something, so just go with what’s working for you. Hurry up, dude. She’ll have your balls for breakfast if you don’t.”

Ryan pulls the towel off and rubs it over his hair. He gets dressed, picks up his wallet, keys and phone and follows Conor in the direction of appointment one of seventeen.

*

Mike finds it a little strange jogging onto the field at the Ravens game. There are a lot of reasons: firstly, he’s wearing a lot more clothes than he normally does when running around; secondly, he can’t smell chlorine; thirdly, Ryan’s not there. He tries to shake that thought from his brain, but that only has him trying to pick Ryan’s face out in the crowd. Because if Ryan isn’t in the lane next to him, or waiting behind the block with him to take a turn in the relay, he’s in the stands with his fingers in his mouth cheering, or with his hand on his chest watching the flag.

Michael’s starting to wonder if he needs help. He’d been warned about this sort of thing, and in the run up to retirement he’d been offered therapy and support more times than he’d been able to count. But given that he’d had yet another dream about Ryan, he didn’t think this was to do with swimming. For a change.

He gets through the duties he’s been assigned, tries to enjoy them, tries to take the experience in. But as he settles down to watch the game, he can’t help but think back...

_“I’m back!” Ryan called, slamming the front door behind him._

_A sweaty bottle of beer appeared in front of Michael from over the top of the couch, uncapped. He took it without taking his eyes off the TV or acknowledging Ryan’s presence._

_Ryan didn’t notice the sleight himself, merely yelled from the kitchen whilst putting the pizzas away, “What’s the score?”_

_But Mike had returned his attention to the TV and was already focused on the game, even Herman, who was slobbering all over his lap, was tuned out. A minute later, Ryan managed to intercept his friend’s viewing by standing between Mike and the screen._

_“No thanks?” he asked._

_Michael leaned to one side, trying to see around Ryan. “Dude,” Ryan persisted. “I know everything to do with your life that doesn’t involve lanes and laps is disorganised, but running out of beer on a game day and me going out to stock you up? Surely that deserves at least a token grope.”_

_Mike just grunted, frowning in displeasure at how the game was going. Ryan leaned into his line of vision, which just caused Mike to dodge the other way. So Ryan continued berating him. “I mean, if one of us were a chick that would’ve surely gotten me a kiss? And then I’d have sat down and wiggled in your lap a bit and got out my copy of Cosmo and done my nails whilst you watched the game and then we’d totally have had a quickie during half time, jeah?”_

_He ducked in the opposite direction, blocking Mike’s view again. “Yo, earth to Phelps!”_

_“Doggy!” Mike growled. “Can’t see through you!”_

_Ryan snorted, “Apparently not.” Despite the fact that it made him feel like a total girl, Ryan gave up and sat down under Mike’s legs on the couch._

_After a few minutes of staring stonily at the screen whilst Mike yelled at it, Ryan tugged his phone out of his pocket, snapped a picture of his friend and took to Twitter. He typed, “hangin out w/ @MichaelPhelps he’s too into the game #nojeahforme” and attached the picture._

_Ryan figured Mike wouldn’t even notice until maybe the following week. He hadn’t banked on the fact that Mike was live-Tweeting the game like some tweenager at a Bieber gig and quickly got his own back as he attached a picture of a sulking Ryan to, “check out the pout on @RyanLochte #goteam #ravens”._

_Ryan leapt to Michael’s end of the couch during the next sponsor message – bad idea, Mike had anticipated the onslaught – and tried to tackle his phone off him to delete the tweet. As he did so, his phone lit up, showing a retweet from Erika. Ryan groaned and gave Mike a strong kick to the upper thigh instead._

_“Hey!” Mike yelled. “Careful of the goods, yeah?”_

_Ryan rolled his eyes, “Yeah yeah. I’m pissed, dude, but I still want you later.”_

_Michael finally got the message and grabbed hold of Ryan’s foot as the game resumed. He rubbed it absently whilst the match rumbled on and Ryan tuned out, soon dozing off at the other end of the couch._

_He woke up a while later as Mike yanked on his foot. “Did you get the pizzas?” he asked._

_Ryan cracked his neck and rubbed his eyes, frustrated. “Yes, man. The exact ones you wanted. They’re in the fridge, go crazy.”_

_“Can you heat ‘em up? Game’s almost over.”_

_Ryan stared at him for a second before yanking his foot back to get up and stalk into the kitchen. He made a point of crashing around, but he had a feeling Mike missed it._

_When he returned with the hot pizza, Mike had opened two more beers and handed him one. So he had remembered Ryan was there after all._

_Ryan handed the beer straight back to him and dumped the pizzas on the floor beside the couch. He eyeballed Mike and spoke calmly, “Bedroom. Thirty seconds. You choose one more thing over my ass today and it’ll be the last thing you choose.”_

_He turned and walked away down the hall, counting back from thirty in his head. He didn’t even get to twenty five before he heard Mike’s feet skidding on the wooden floor and pounding after him. The taller swimmer got ahead of Ryan, grabbed his wrists and hauled him into the bedroom before Ryan got as far as twenty._

_Ryan wasn’t very good at sulking, which worked well given that Mike was terrible at apologies. He figured that, in this instance, what Ryan wanted was to get him naked and go crazy, so that was what he gave him._

_Michael shed his clothes quickly, settled himself on the bed and grabbed the lube from the nightstand. Ryan watched, letting his shorts drop to the floor._

_Mike stared him down, frowning. “C’mon, Doggy. This is what you wanted, what’re you waiting for?”_

_He waited as Ryan seemed to consider the question. He’d roll his eyes and think to himself that this could take a while, but Ryan was normally decisive when sex was involved, so he wasn’t worried. Until Ryan’s moment of hesitation became a minute, and he stood looking at Mike and biting his lip._

_“Cocktease,” Mike grumbled, sitting back up and rooting through the stuff on the floor for his pants._

_Before he could find them, Ryan was stood in front of him, tilting his face up and fixing him with an intense blue stare._

_“I’m sorry,” Ryan said, holding Mike’s chin steady to keep his gaze. “I’m sorry for being bitchy. I know you don’t get much time off, I know you hardly take any time out to enjoy yourself, I know you like to watch the football and behave like you’re a normal dude. I’m sorry.”_

_Before Michael could say anything in response, Ryan tilted his body back, supporting the younger man’s weight with his arms now wrapped around him, moving to straddle Mike’s thighs carefully. Mike reflexively leaned into Ryan’s touch, pressing their chests together and closing his eyes to breathe it all in._

_When Ryan kissed him, it was full of need, but rather than the sexually demanding need of a few minutes before, this felt different. Ryan’s kiss was a request for forgiveness and Michael gave it to him, in the form of his own kiss, his body and his time._

_Later that night, as he lay next to Ryan, watching him sleep in the glow of the streetlight through the window, Michael wondered how he’d gotten lucky enough to have Ryan in his life – someone who’d not only put up with his behaviour, with bearing the brunt of his moods and his schedule, but would continue to come out smiling and giving his affection, even when it wasn’t returned._

It turns into a strong home win for the Ravens and Mike manages to babble excitedly with his family as they leave the stadium at the end of the night. It’s only when he gets home, collapses on the couch and pets the pups as they join him that he wishes Ryan were with him, happy to talk through the play by play before falling into bed and celebrating the victory that wasn’t theirs but could be for the sake of excuses to stay up all night enjoying themselves.

*

Ryan spends the flight to Florida allowing his thoughts to spin from helplessly excited to the most homesick he’s ever been and back again. He’s terrified of how short this visit is, getting more desperate by the day to return to some semblance of normality – and sunshine and Carter and his newest nephew and everything else that he loves about home – but he grits it out. Because this visit is special.

He cradles Trustin in his arms, unable to stop grinning, chattering happily with Dalia and Zaydin and watching their faces fail to comprehend it when he tells them that he did this with them once too. Ryan finds himself wondering whether, even when he’s retired, he’ll be able to get enough of the baby thing. He finds it as potent and addictive as winning, and these kids aren’t even his own. He doesn’t care how girly these whispered thoughts are – Trustin’s the only one who can hear and he won’t tell.

His sister eventually prises the baby away and Ryan’s off again, beating a familiar path onto the sunshine of a deck he knows well. There’s a novelty cheque and a huge crowd of over-excited kids – and parents who are just as bad – plus his dad beaming proudly.

As usual these days, there are cameras and press too, but today Ryan doesn’t care. He looks around the deck and thinks of all the parties and the talk shows and the opportunities laid out before him and not for the first time he genuinely thinks that this is definitely the best thing about being an Olympian...

_Ryan’s phone had rung so many times in his pocket whilst he was signing autographs and running through stroke drills and posing for pictures that it had eventually run itself flat. He sank into his car and plugged it in as he turned the key and as soon as the phone started to get some power, it went crazy with messages._

_Ryan glanced down to see what he’d missed and smiled to himself: Mike, of course. He didn’t have time to listen to the messages, so he put the phone on speaker and dialled Michael’s number as he put the car into drive and pulled away._

_Mike’s phone almost rang out and Ryan had prepared himself to leave a message. But suddenly there was a crash and some crackling and some muffled swearing before, finally a, “’sup?”_

_Ryan laughed and nearly swerved off the road, “Wow!”_

_Mike groaned. “Izzit ‘mportant, Doggy?”_

_“Incredibly,” Ryan replied, shooting for a serious tone and probably landing several emotions wide of the mark._

_“F’ck off,” Michael muttered._

_“Dude, you called me!” Ryan crowed. “Several thousand times whilst I was trying to explain the finer points of backstroke to a load of seven year olds. So not helpful.”_

_“Wha’ time’zit?” Mike asked._

_“I dunno where you are, bro, but it’s nearly seven PM in the G-spot.”_

_Michael suddenly sounded a lot more awake. “Shit, I’ve gotta go.”_

_Ryan frowned. “Well, thank me later for the wakeup call. What’s the hurry anyways?”_

_Mike answered without pausing to think about who he was talking to and that it might bother Ryan: “I’ve got a date.” And hung up._

_Ryan pulled over this time and stared open-mouthed at the phone for a second before dialling someone else. He didn’t even let the other person speak when they answered: “Kyle? I’m done with the clinic, on my way home. Get yourself ready, we’re going out tonight. I’ll bring my medals.”_

As the splashing subsides and the cameras stop rolling, Ryan returns to the present. This time, his phone hasn’t been ringing off the hook throughout his day with the kids at the pool. He preferred it that way, being able to stay a little more in the moment and enjoy the appreciation from the people around him.

*

Mike hates commercial flights and this was his second of three in a week. He stomps through arrivals in a funk, cap pulled low, sunglasses on, Weezy in his ears. It doesn’t work: they’ve found him.

Michael curses Twitter and paparazzi and the internet in general for no doubt leaking his whereabouts. He tries to figure out the quickest way to get to his car without running the fangirl gauntlet, but his thoughts are yet again overtaken by Ryan...

_As they queued at passport control in London, Ryan rummaged through his backpack. Michael pulled his headphones back and asked, “What did you leave on the plane this time?”_

_“Nothing,” Ryan muttered distractedly. “It was me who found your sunglasses under the footrest after you’d already bolted, remember?”_

_Michael opened his mouth to reply but thought better of it, disappearing back to his music instead. The line shuffled forward a little and Mike shifted impatiently. A sliver of tanned skin appeared in the bottom of his field of vision as Ryan continued his search, crouched over his backpack on the floor. Mike took the opportunity to enjoy the view, eyes sliding down over the perfect curve of Ryan’s ass as he remembered the sight of his dick pounding into it a few hours earlier._

_He didn’t realise he’d let out a soft groan until Bob cleared his throat behind him. Mike instantly snapped from cultivating a semi to thinking he might never get it up again. His coach’s interruption turned Mike’s thoughts to strokes of a different kind, and he closed his eyes and began to swim his first race as they edged closer to the immigration booth._

_Ryan turned triumphantly just before he got called forward and thrust a pen at Michael, who was just about to glide for the wall in his 400IM prelim. When he didn’t respond, Ryan jabbed him in the chest with the pen. Mike took it on autopilot as he envisaged turning to look at the board._

_Ryan presented his passport, answered the relevant questions and progressed to the baggage hall. Mike played idly with the pen as he followed suit before heading off to find Ryan at the carousel._

_“What’s this?” he asked, flicking Ryan’s bicep with the pen._

_Ryan blinked at him. “Um, are you for real?”_

_When Michael just looked at him expectantly, Ryan continued. “It’s a pen, Mike. For, y’know, writing?”_

_Michael rolled his eyes. “Not what I meant. Why did you give it to me?” He fully expected some bizarre story about rituals or lucky charms, but instead he got..._

_“You never have one.”_

_“Because I don’t need one.”_

_Ryan yanked his passing luggage off the carousel and threw it onto a cart. “You’re fucking kidding me, right? You get your people to sign your autographs for you now?” he laughed. “Actually, that wouldn’t surprise me. Asshole.”_

_Michael had to grab his cart and run to catch up. “Who are you calling an asshole?” he fumed._

_“You, asshole,” Ryan repeated. “You don’t get it, do you?”_

_“Get what?”_

_“When we walk through those doors,” Ryan pointed at the ones which led to arrivals, “it’s gonna be busy.”_

_“And?”_

_“Full. Of people waiting for you. You’ve made a big fucking noise about this being it. They’ll be waiting. The fans. The people who made you.”_

_“I made me,” Michael muttered automatically._

_Ryan exploded this time. “For as long as you’ve been putting in the yardage, they’ve been cheering your ass on. So fucking suck it up and enjoy your happy ending and fucking thank them, dude! It is not a lot to ask for you to scribble on their shit.”_

_“I’ve got things to do,” Mike replied simply._

_“Like fucking what?” Ryan raged. “Count strokes? Imagine races? Fuck no. You can do that later.”_

_They stared each other down for a minute, then Michael saw something click in Ryan, watched his expression drop._

_“You have no idea, do you?”_

_“About what now?” Mike asked exasperatedly, glancing back at the rest of the team gathered behind them._

_“What it’s like to pluck up the balls,” Ryan said, “only to have your hero smack you down in public.”_

_He turned his cart and walked through the doors to a cheer. Michael heard his own name, caught a glimpse of the flashes. He looked down at the pen in his hand, gripped his own cart and followed Ryan._

_For the first time, he matched Ryan autograph for autograph, picture for picture, until the coaches and media people hustled them along and into the bus._

_Mike looked down at the dents in his fingers, rubbing the feeling back into them. Ryan dropped into the seat next to him, a contented smile playing on his features._

_Anyone else would think Ryan was talking to himself when he said, “I like that nobody will think I’m an asshole.” He turned to Mike, “We were raised better than that.” He closed his eyes and slept the entire journey to the Village. Mike spent the ride wondering which asshole had burned a young Ryan, and fighting the urge to hunt him down and rearrange his face._

Mike slows down to remove his backpack and root through the pockets. Sure enough, the pen Ryan had given him at Heathrow is still there. He shoulders his bag, spins the pen in his fingers and takes a deep breath to prepare himself.

Starting with the littlest kid, staring at him hopefully but terrified, he crouches for a picture. As he continues through the airport, pausing to sign autographs, Michael feels the familiar pang of how much easier this was when Ryan was there to exchange glances with.

*

Ryan hasn’t had time to change before the party – Erika’s filled every minute of his day again, the only time he’s been alone all day was to take a leak, and even that was a close call. So he feels uncomfortable right off the bat, which isn’t something he’s used to.

He has to really work hard to smile when they arrive and the entire place looks like a Michael Phelps Shrine. Ryan thinks to himself that it’s a little creepy, that the guy’s retired, not died, though Ryan finds himself thinking that a piece of them both might have died.

He resolves to stop thinking, takes a drink from a passing waitress and tosses most of it back in one go. Ryan is drawn to the roof terrace, Conor following him like a fucking shadow, as he has been for weeks now.

And there he is. Michael’s sat casually as you like on a wall in a shit hot suit, chatting away to some people Ryan doesn’t know. Ryan hasn’t thought of this. Incredibly.

He hasn’t actually seen Mike since they fell asleep that night in London – and _that_ thought takes Ryan to all sorts of places he hasn’t been for a few weeks – not on TV (Ryan’s almost forgotten what one of those is), not at any other events or photocalls or airports or hotels or pools... nothing. it’s been the longest time without Mike all summer and he looks... different.

Ryan can still see through Mike’s Party Front, but he sees something else behind it. Mike’s, like, relaxed. Really, truly, relaxed. Enjoying himself. Excited. Happy. Without the pool, without Ryan. Ryan feels like someone’s tossed a bucket of ice cold water over him and is torn between punching something and just plain running away.

But someone’s caught him, got him answering more inane questions about TV appearances and fashion and Michael fucking Phelps. Ryan holds it together long enough to get rid of the reporter. Conor presses another drink into his hand, one which is mercifully stronger than the previous one. Ryan thinks he might love Conor for that. Until Conor breezes over and starts talking to Michael. Ryan ducks behind a convenient plant and downs his drink before peeping round to watch.

Mike and Conor bro-hug, smiling and laughing as they talk. Ryan can see how shit’s going down, see the moment that Conor tells Mike that Ryan’s there, somewhere. Sees Mike lose focus on Conor and sweep the rooftop in one glance, frowning.

Ryan’s had enough. He’s not ready, can’t deal. He starts to slink away, but is caught unawares by Erika, who’s sized up the situation from about sixty blocks away and steers him straight over to Conor and Mike. Ryan freezes, not even managing to find autopilot. He’s used to other people making decisions about where he’s seen these days, but not like this. This is different, this is the first time he and Mike have breathed the same air since the GOAT left him sleeping, leaving Ryan thinking that the whole thing had been a dream.

This was definitely the nightmare to end all others, being propelled towards Michael in front of a barrage of smartphones and Twitter accounts. Following a kick from Erika, Ryan plasters on a half-assed smile and leans in as briefly as he can for the pictures. He manages to avoid making eye contact with Mike – helped by the younger man keeping his body turned the other way – but catches Conor’s eye first time, grabbing his hand and dragging him away.

Ryan’s successfully entered the plane of Not Thinking and pulls Conor into the bathroom and this time there’s no Devon and it’s Ryan’s idea, not Conor’s. It doesn’t take much to draw the other man in, for their mouths to meet and for Ryan to feel like he’s been here before...

_When he returned from his first Olympics, Ryan’s life had fallen into a new routine. It mainly involved: sleep, eat, party. It was much the same as it had been a few months before – he was, after all, in college – but this time, he wasn’t just showing up for parties. He WAS the party. Everyone wanted to be his friend, everyone wanted to check out his abs and everyone wanted to get him a drink._

_The best part was that there were other special invited guests at these parties – ones who had become his friends whilst they were in Athens, and one in particular who Ryan thought of as being a really important friend. The only thing that bothered him once in a while was that he wasn’t sure how Mike felt about their friendship. He wasn’t, in fact, sure how Mike felt about anything. Apart from swimming. Ryan sometimes thought that if Mike could make love to the pool, he would. Maybe he did. Maybe **they** could. Which was an interesting possibility._

_But right then, Ryan was being offered another drink, so he put his thoughts to one side and took the bottle being handed to him. And realised after the first pull that he had to pee._

_Ryan excused himself and wriggled his way past the handsy girls surrounding the table to find the bathroom. He didn’t mean to shove the door open with as much force as he did, causing it to bang loudly against the wall. And he definitely hadn’t expected to find the bathroom empty but for Michael Phelps and Ian “Hero” Thorpe sucking the air out of each other’s throats._

_The two men sprang apart at the noise which announced Ryan’s entrance. “Well,” he said, trying to hold himself together as he hustled over to take a leak, “I’d been wondering where the private party was at.” He finished quickly and washed his hands._

_Ryan slapped Michael – who clearly had no idea how to react – on the back as he made his way back out to the bar, “Good to know where I am in the pecking order outside the pool, Mikey. Enjoy your night.”_

_As he continued his evening, Ryan couldn’t help himself, distractedly glancing over in the direction of the bathrooms until – almost half an hour later – Ian emerged, followed a couple of minutes later by a sated-looking Michael. Ryan shook his head and boxed the image away in his head, deciding he’d figure out what he’d say to his teammate later. He accepted another drink and scanned the group of nearby girls, hoping to well and truly move on with his night._

Ryan’s eyes fly open and it’s all he can do not to shake his head and throw Conor off him, as he could swear the sound of door bouncing off tiled wall happened in the present, not just in his memory. Conor must’ve felt the shift, as he pulls his mouth off Ryan’s and makes his way down the older man’s neck with his tongue. 

As the younger man moves his head, Ryan can see the door to the bathroom swing closed and realises that he hadn’t been hearing the echo in his head. He lets his head fall back against the wall and tries to get into this...thing with Conor, but he’s never been good at forcing himself and any trace of arousal is long gone for him. Partly because he’s thinking about who saw them making out in the bathroom at a magazine party, partly because, yet again, his thoughts have been invaded by Mike.

Conor’s hell bent on getting some, either choosing to ignore or not picking up on Ryan’s lack of desire. It takes a fair amount of force for Ryan to push the taller man away and shoulder past him out of the bathroom.

When he finds Erika a minute later, he can tell she’s pissed. Normally he’d suck it up and smooth things over, but tonight he’s not in the mood. He’s tired, he’s fed up of being a performing seal and he’s at a party for someone he wants to term as an ex but who probably wouldn’t term him as being that. And Ryan knows that, despite the shitty behaviour, he doesn’t want Mike to be his ex.

So he tells Erika in no uncertain terms that he’s leaving and follows through. As he slumps in the backseat of the car back to the hotel, Ryan knows that the first thing he’ll do once he’s in his room will be to jerk off to a long past memory of a time when Mike made him happy.

*

Mike plays his usual hand at the party, especially given that he’s retired. He lets people come to him with questions, rather than actively working the room. He doesn’t feel like he owes anyone anything these days – unless they’re paying him – so he settles himself on the terrace, looking out at the city and sipping his drink.

Incredibly, he doesn’t get approached by many people and he’s starting to relax when he gets a slap on the back and turns to see Conor Dwyer grinning at him. He doesn’t know Conor all that well, but the guy did hold his end up in the relay so Mike stands and gives him a polite bro-hug.

He sits down again quickly and is only giving half his attention to the conversation until Conor mentions that Ryan’s around. Then Mike’s on full alert. He’d had no idea that Ryan would be there, though he did – stalkerishly – know that Ryan was still doing the rounds on the TV show and Fashion Week circuit. So he should’ve suspected, really, that Ryan’s money-grabbing machine of an agent would have him here tonight.

Michael glances round the terrace at the same time as Conor, trying not to look like he’s craning his neck for a glimpse of Ryan. He wishes he’d thought a little more about his outfit, rather than pulling out the first suit which still had a dry cleaning ticket on it and the first shirt and tie that he thought might match. He realises that his pulse has quickened, that he’s on full alert, that he’s...excited at the prospect of seeing Ryan. But also totally unprepared, and that’s not just his outfit.

And suddenly, there he is, being steered towards them slightly reluctantly by his agent, but looking to Mike like the best thing since sliced bread, even though he’s dressed casually and clearly hasn’t been near the pool or the gym for a while. Mike can’t believe he’d forgotten what this feels like, for Ryan to walk into a room and for it to feel like everyone else has disappeared. Mike has to remind himself to breathe. Then, with a start, he remembers when he last saw Ryan, and the passive-aggressive goings on since.

Mike turns away, looking back out into the night. He doesn’t trust himself to watch Ryan approach, needs a minute to get himself together. He can smell Ryan right behind him, feel his presence. But it’s not until someone calls his name that he actually turns his upper body and plasters on a smile for the inevitable camera.

He chances a glance at Ryan’s face and can see the tension there, the similarly forced grin. And of course, he has no idea what to say. Not that a party’s the best place to have a relationship crisis talk, but at least they’d be talking. Ryan hasn’t returned any of his messages, and Mike knows he’s busy – how can he not know, when Ryan’s there every time the TV is on – but even when there had been times when he was similarly busy in the past, he was quick to get back to Mike. Always eager, always happy, always keen to see him. If there were medals for trying to freak a person out and make them feel bad, Ryan would definitely be taking gold right now.

Before Mike can process it, Ryan’s disappeared and so has Conor. He finishes his drink, letting the conversation nearby flow over him, nodding occasionally. It’s suddenly too noisy and he’s fallen out of the carefully-prepared zone he was in that was keeping him afloat in the party atmosphere.

Time out, he thinks. Take a breath, get out of the pool. He ignores everyone who tries to stop him as he makes his way indoors and sends up a silent prayer that nobody follows him into the bathroom – it’s happened before and it’s never anything but painfully awkward, unless it’s for a drug test.

The coast seems clear and he pushes the door open quickly, wincing as it bounces off the wall – despite being 27 and used to having the wingspan of Concord, Mike still pushes inanimate objects too far occasionally. The wince soon turns to an uncontrollable look of shock when he’s confronted with the image of Ryan backed up against the wall, Conor in his arms and on his mouth.

Michael blinks, and wishes someone were there to pinch him. Or that Ryan would break into his stupidest grin and laugh at the look on his face, saying that he’d got him good. But although time seemed to stand still, the scene before his eyes didn’t shift. Conor was kissing Ryan. Ryan was definitely kissing him back. Mike was out the door.

*

Ryan gives himself a mental slap. He knew this was coming, knew this would be one of those times when it hit him hardest. It reminds him of the feeling when someone has died – every first hurts a little. First time it’s their birthday and you buy them a present because you’ve forgotten they won’t be there to unwrap it. First Christmas and you don’t get a card from them. First big party and it feels like there’s a gap in the room which won’t be filled anymore. First time you see something that’d make them laugh and you remind yourself to tell them next time you see them, but that time doesn’t come.

As he walks onto the silent deck at the familiar pool, dawn is just beginning to caress the horizon. If he didn’t know the space so well, he wouldn’t be able to see the other end of the expanse of water before him. He snaps a picture – one he’d normally send to Mike, with some sort of semi-competitive, semi-flirtatious caption – because he’s forgotten, yet again, that he’s ignoring him. He uploads it to Twitter instead. Erika won’t mind that one, won’t tell him off for it being a random chick at Grog.

Ryan starts the routine which is so familiar that he thinks sometimes his body does it whilst he’s sleeping. He pulls his goggles down, takes a breath and dives in, facing the next four years alone.

*

Mike is impressed by how long it is before he thinks of Ryan again – it’s almost three weeks – and when it is, it’s because someone else brings him up. If it weren’t his mother, he’d be sorely tempted to kill that person.

He’s kind of having a blast in retirement, but kind of feeling an ache of loneliness too. He can see his dogs whenever he wants, he’s made it to several football games he’d definitely have missed if he were in training, and he’s played in two golf tournaments on two different continents which absolutely would’ve been forbidden had he not retired. He’s even managed to look pretty competent at golf in front of a load of TV cameras. Pity the USA team couldn’t manage to do the same, but Mike’s starting to wonder if maybe someday he could help them out just a little.

Mastering two sports in one lifetime doesn’t seem half as tough as forgetting about Ryan. Especially not when, apropos of nothing, his mother mentions the other man.

“You know, if you’d accept one of those commentary offers, you could go and watch Ryan in Istanbul,” she remarks, “AND get paid for it.”

Michael almost spits coffee all over his mom’s kitchen, but somehow manages to convince his body not to. Why she had to bring up swimming – and Ryan specifically – Michael has no idea, but it’s turned his mood pretty quickly from average to bad, so he decides to let her have it.

“If I wanted to go to Istanbul, I could go any time and I can afford to take myself there,” he points out.

Debbie shrugs innocently, “I just thought this would be a good opportunity to start your media career, something with less coverage, more laidback...”

“Well maybe do less thinking,” he snaps, standing up abruptly. “Especially not on my behalf.”

Michael storms out before he has to face the inevitable Principal Phelps Telling Off, driving away from the house as fast as possible without getting himself another conviction.

Without putting much thought into it, he’s again on his way to the airport, again calling in advance – because he’s now aware of the fact that he’s liable to forget whether or not he’s already booked on a flight on any given day – and again with no idea what he’s going to do when he arrives at his destination.

*

Mike picks up a car at the airport and drums his fingers on the steering wheel for a minute whilst he thinks about what to do next. He replays his previous encounter in his mind – how he and Ryan hadn’t said a word together, seeing Ryan sandwiched between Conor and the bathroom wall, wondering whether either of them knew that he’d seen.

He decides it’s time to just bite the bullet: find Ryan, figure out what to say and do later. Far from his most solid plan ever, but given that he can’t come up with anything else – other than getting back on a plane and facing his mom’s wrath – he’s got to go with it.

It’s getting late – he always forgets how long it takes to get to Gainesville from anywhere – and he heads towards Ryan’s house. Progress is slow as he accidentally hits one of the main streets, remembering too late that it’s Saturday night and the students of UF will probably be doing what they do best – enjoying themselves.

As he joins the crawling traffic, Mike watches the students flow in and out of a bar and it occurs to him that a drink might not be a bad idea. He parks the car and joins the crowd, relieved that nobody stops to recognise him – he guesses the people in this town are, like him, on the lookout for Ryan instead – and steadily pushes his way to the bar of the place he’s ended up in. And finds himself face to face with Ryan Lochte.

*

Ryan’s falling into old habits: swim practice, weight training, hanging out with Carter, going out in Gainesville. He’s a little tired of the college scene, though can’t make up his mind about whether or not to be tired of college girls and, ultimately, he’s a people person. Ryan doesn’t do so well when he’s left to his own devices, so he seeks entertainment in public.

For the second time in as many weeks, he finds himself behind the bar in Grog, entertaining the student population and enjoying the evening. It feels normal, balanced. There’s always someone different to talk to, smile and flirt with, forget about the next day.

Until the person eyeballing him from the other side of the bar is Mike. Ryan blinks, but Mike’s still there. He shakes his head, as if trying to get water out of his ears, but the Greatest Olympian of All Time is still stood in front of him, staring back.

Fuck.

Or, what the fuck?

They hadn’t spoken at the Details party and Ryan still hadn’t returned any of Mike’s messages. He still didn’t think he had anything to say to him that he hadn’t said with the box of shit he’d sent him a few weeks before. Except, of course, he does: “What can I get you?” he manages, as if Mike’s any other person in the joint.

Mike’s never been considered a smooth talker, but he somehow manages it this time, “Someplace to talk.”

Ryan frowns and throws what he hopes is a smart comment back at him, “Sorry, not on the menu.”

Before he can turn away and give his attention to one of the genuine customers at the bar, Mike’s leaned over, grabbed his arm and dragged him out back. For someone who’s retired, he’s still freakishly strong. Or maybe it’s that Ryan’s in such a daze that even his young nephew could manhandle him around right now.

“Dude,” Ryan finally manages as Mike bullies him into the staff bathroom, “I’m busy.”

“Doing what?” Mike asks. “Picking up another famewhore?”

Ryan fixes Mike with a stare that could probably freeze a pool solid. “You’re seriously gonna call me out on that?”

For the first time, Michael has the good grace to blush and wishes he could haul that stupid comment out of the air and back into his mouth to strangle his own tongue with. “Sorry,” he mumbles instead.

“Sorry?” Ryan chokes. “Fuckin’ sorry?!” He turns away and beats the wall with a fist, leaning his forehead against it and trying to breathe normally, rather than in the massive gusts that remind him of the hideous triple he swam at trials.

Mike bites his lip, feeling completely lost. His body is screaming at him to wrap his arms around Ryan, turn him around and pull him in and stroke his back and his hair and try to soothe him like a child because this _hurts_ seeing him like this. And knowing that this is his fault has caused his legs to seize up and his tongue to swell in his head, rendering him incapable of speech or movement.

He watches helplessly as Ryan tries to pull himself back together, but Mike gets the feeling that might not be possible, that part of Ryan has been discarded – and not necessarily willingly – somewhere else in the world and that he might never get it back.

He finally manages to reach out and touch Ryan’s shoulder with the tips of his fingers, intending to flatten his palm over the familiar muscles and tug his best friend towards him, but Ryan shrugs his hand away so violently and it almost causes Mike’s head to spin.

Ryan spins to face him, eyes flashing in a way that Michael’s never seen before and never wants to see again. “Get out of my sight,” he spits. “You’re the one who didn’t want to say goodbye. Deal with it.”

As Mike watches Ryan yank the door open and rejoin the noisy crowd at the bar, he finally sees what he did. And it has nothing to do with medals or records or greatness and everything to do with breaking Ryan’s heart.


End file.
